I was not going back to being extra.
Not after I’d watched money make me visible.
Not after I’d watched my parents’ kindness appear like a costume.
Not after I’d learned my grandmother had seen the truth and built me a way out.
I looked back at Ms. Laird.
Looked at Mr. Harlan.
And I blinked once.
Yes.
Yes, I understood.
Yes, I was ready—at least to start.
Because the story had belonged to Raven for so long that I’d almost forgotten my life could be a story at all.
But now—now the door was closed behind me, and the future was open.
The day they told me I was medically stable enough to be discharged, the word discharged sounded like freedom—until the nurse added the part that mattered.
“Discharge planning,” she said gently, flipping through a clipboard. “Where you’ll go next.”
Where I’ll go next.
It should’ve been simple. For most kids, it would be simple. A parent signs forms. A car pulls up. Home.
But in my body, the memory of my mother’s whisper still lived like a permanent bruise.
We can’t afford two children. Only Raven can survive.
And beside it, the image of my father signing paperwork to end my treatment with a steady hand.
That wasn’t panic.
That wasn’t confusion.
That was a decision.
